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Deep red looks stark against hollowed cheeks and pale skin.
The Doctor’s roots are slick with grease and long with time.
Time. Too much time.
There are tally marks in sets of ten scrawled across the wall of her cell and the Doctor’s cuticles are raw and bloody.
For a minute, Yaz thinks — oh, thank God — there’s a piece of chalk tucked into the breast pocket of the Doctor’s jumpsuit. She hadn’t used her bare nails to —
Yaz shakes her head, casting the thought aside to save from giving in to the pull of the moisture coating her bottom eyelids. She has to keep her composure while the Doctor seems so fragile.
She’ll have time later to curse herself for her tardiness.
Going by the length of the Doctor’s dirty locks, it’s been a great deal longer for her.
When the Doctor takes a shaky step forward on bare, filthy feet and slumps into Yaz’s chest like an injured animal seeking someplace to hide, she feels the brittle bones and emaciated ribs beneath her too-big jumpsuit before the warmth of her form.
“Can you walk?” Yaz queries when the alien sags against her, making no signs of moving. “It’s just a couple steps, I promise. The TARDIS is right behind me. Can y’hear me, Doctor?”
Lifting the Doctor’s chin leaves her head lolling to one side, eyes glossy and bloodshot. If it weren’t for her slightly irregular blinks and solid warmth, she’d be mistaken for a lifelike puppet.
Shoving back the panic in her throat and eating away at her lungs, Yaz takes control.
“Alright, arms around my shoulders,” she instructs a moment before she bends to sling an arm around the backs of the Doctor’s knees and lift.
The Doctor’s fingers coiling around the lapels of her leather jacket are enough of a reassurance for Yaz. She steps back into the cupboard-camouflage TARDIS to the sound of guards approaching, grateful for the way wheezing, groaning engines kick into action and drown them out as soon as they’re safely inside.
“Jack’s got your TARDIS located, so it’ll be in Sheffield by the time we’re back,” Yaz informs the spaced-out woman in her arms as she makes her way up to the cylindrical centre console. The pale blues and whites do nothing for the Doctor’s pale complexion, and, adjusting her hold, Yaz spares a pleading glance to the controls.
“Can you get us back to Sheffield, please?” she asks the otherwise empty room while the Doctor’s chin drops to her chest with what Yaz can translate as an exhausted sigh.
A click and a low hum of the engines later, Yaz pats the console above in gratitude.
While the TARDIS begins piloting itself smoothly back home, Yaz crouches to settle the Time Lord down against cool, manufactured metal. Sinking to the floor beside her and lifting her head into her lap, she has a chance to take in the Doctor’s state properly.
The instant she makes contact with Yaz’s form again, the Doctor curls into her with heavy-lidded eyes and lips parted in pleasant surprise. “You feel so real this time,” she croaks; the first six words Yaz has managed to coax from her since she’d landed in her dingy cell five minutes ago.
And they serve as the last for the time being, if her closing eyes and steadying breaths are anything to go by.
There are bands of pink and red and green around her wrists where bruises lay atop bruises as Yaz takes her fleeting pulse for her own reassurance.
A stable drumbeat greets her index and middle finger and Yaz breathes out a satisfied sigh, settling for the smooth journey back.
It doesn’t surprise her that the one time the TARDIS is pilotless, it’s the least bumpy journey she’s ever had.
A larger part of her actually misses the chaos of the Doctor’s eccentric driving.
Lifting her gaze to pliant features and a sleep-creased brow, Yaz’s chest aches. “I hope y’can hear me, somehow, because I’m not letting you out of my sight ever again.”
The TARDIS lands just shy of Graham’s favourite armchair, so, upon their arrival, Yaz isn’t the only one to breathe a sigh of relief.
The Doctor is still passed out when Yaz bundles her up and steps past the threshold, heading straight for her favourite sofa to lay her comfortably down. “She’s exhausted. It doesn’t look like she’s slept in weeks.”
Graham’s expression is creased around the edges with worry, especially when he catches onto the red jumpsuit crowding her now scrawny figure and the dirty clamour about her.
“What’ve they done to her?” he pipes up when he spots her harmed wrists. “I think we got to her just in time, Yaz.”
“I don’t know about that,” Yaz breathes, bottom lip trembling now they’ve been forced to simply stand and wait for her best friend to regain strength. She thinks back to the way the Doctor had stared at her in shock when she’d first turned up, then the comment she’d made aboard the borrowed TARDIS. “But I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
A solid hand finds her shoulder but Yaz is rooted to the spot, scanning the Doctor’s expression constantly for any changes, however minuscule.
“Jack’s found her TARDIS. It’s parked around the corner. He said she should be fine after some rest, but we’ll have to give her some major TLC for the next few days,” Ryan informs her, trying and failing to hide the concern from his voice for, Yaz presumes, her benefit over anyone else’s. He pats her arm until she turns slightly, eyes still fixed on the blonde. “C’mere, mate.”
Although she’d never indulge him, Ryan’s hugs are therapy in disguise.
Yaz hooks her chin over Ryan’s shoulder when he squeezes her in a tight embrace, giving in to his welcome comfort in a moment of vulnerability.
Graham’s hand at her back almost tips the tears still balancing on her bottom lid over. So, when he smiles in the corner of her vision and murmurs a consoling, “you did good, kid,” she ducks her head against Ryan’s clothed collarbone to hide any further emotion like a bad habit.
“I’ll get the kettle on,” Graham announces in the aftermath, brushing past to busy himself as best he can during their waiting game. “Kept a stash of custard creams behind for this one, too.” Motioning to the sleeping blonde, Graham shakes his head in fond exasperation. “I wonder how long it’ll take until she’s sniffing them out.”
“She’s not a dog, gramps.”
“She licked her plate clean then put it back into the cupboard last time she were here.”
“Alright, maybe she’s got dog tendencies.”
Yaz smiles for the first time in what feels like months; a proper, hearty smile. They’ve got the Doctor (mostly) back and she can breathe again. “I think she’s more of a puppy.”
It’s early afternoon by the time the Doctor even shows signs of waking; the raise of a hand to her face, cupped around her nose and mouth and hiding her features from the room. She shifts onto her side at the same time, knees tucking up to her chest.
Yaz drags a blanket over her form and peels a lock of fallen hair from her pursed lips in gentle affection, glad to find the blonde’s cheeks a touch pinker with the warmth of the house.
The afternoon has passed into the evening when green eyes greet the room in short waves of stubborn fatigue. A sigh here and a muffled grunt there are loud in Yaz’s ears from her place in the chair opposite, keeping watch.
There’s a quiz show running on the television, interrupted every five minutes by Graham’s excitable answers and Ryan’s groans of frustration.
“How do you know the answers to every question?” Ryan complains, throwing his hands up in defeat. “You gotta be cheating.”
“Books, son,” Graham answers between bites into fresh chips from the chip shop at the end of the road. “And life experience. You lot spend too much time on your phones.”
In tandem, Yaz and Ryan roll their eyes.
At the same time, the Doctor opens hers.
Yaz doesn’t miss the way she glances down at her wrists in confused surprise, as though expecting them to be bound in thick metal. The action tears through her ribcage like sodden paper.
“Hey,” she whispers when the Doctor’s gaze looks a little panicked. “You’re at Graham’s house. We — I broke into your cell with one of the TARDIS’s we nicked months ago. Jack’s brought your TARDIS back here. You’re safe. Y’could do with a bath and some food, but you’re okay.”
Like a kitten after a long nap, the Doctor blinks slowly and stretches her limbs in turn.
Clicking her wrist in a way which Yaz is pretty sure should not be happening to a healthy joint, she takes in three pairs of concerned eyes with a sheepish smile. Her voice is hoarse with lack of use. “If this is a dream, and I’ve definitely lost it, this is a really mean way to go.”
“Not a dream, mate,” Ryan asserts with a grin, quiz show forgotten. “We’re here. Real. we’re real.”
“It’s good to have you back, Doc,” Graham adds. “You’re taking it easy from now on. That’s an order.”
Any complaints the Doctor has ready halt on her tongue when all three shoot her warning looks. Shrinking, she picks at the blanket pooled in her lap.
“How did you find me?”
Yaz clears her throat to keep a flood of confessions at bay. “I had a letter through the post,” she murmurs instead, and the Doctor’s gaze snaps to her. “At home, yesterday. It had a set of coordinates and nothing else, so I went back to the TARDIS today and asked it for help.”
She thinks back to this morning; hours of pleading and begging with the stubborn, unfamiliar ship. If it had been the Doctor’s TARDIS, it would’ve taken her there in an instant, she knows that for certain.
The Doctor does, too, if the way her features soften is anything to go by.
Yaz hands over the rich blue envelope in question, detailed with a broken maroon seal and finished with swirling calligraphy which looks eerily similar to the Doctor’s own hand.
During the trade, their fingers brush and the Doctor’s contact lingers, reassuring herself of Yaz’s solid form.
Wordlessly, the Doctor tucks the envelope into her breast pocket. Only then, it seems, does she take in her own dishevelment.
Sniffing the air, she eyes the half-eaten, still warm chips laying on the coffee table like a child in front of a sample tray in a sweet shop.
“Tell you what,” Graham starts, standing with his hands on his hips. “I’ll make some more tea. Get some of those chips down you, Doc, then Yaz can run you a bath and I’m sure Ryan has some clothes you could borrow for the night.”
“No, it’s alright. No need to worry about me. Brilliant nap, that was. Always said your sofa was comfy,” the Doctor starts despite the way her hand’s already reaching for a greasy, salty chip.
“None of that, Doctor. Let us take care of you,” Yaz insists, arching a thick brow in challenge.
As always, the Doctor gives in under Yaz’s instruction.
Perhaps not much has changed after all.
Cramming a handful of chips into her mouth while Ryan laughs at her enthusiasm, Yaz shakes her head in playful exasperation. “Doctor, slow down. You’re going to give yourself indigestion.”
“These chips are amazin’, Yaz. I love chips,” the Doctor muffles through a bite before another forkful joins her hamster-like stuffed cheeks.
A full meal and two cups of tea later, the Doctor eases into the tub behind Yaz’s back with a barely-quelled groan.
Ignoring the way the noise greets her ears, Yaz waits until the sound of sloshing water eases before turning slightly. “Are you alright? S’it okay to turn around?”
“I’m okay, yeah,” she hears her sigh in bliss. Turning, Yaz finds her surrounded by soapy foam with the water lapping at her bony shoulders. “Thanks for the extra bubbles,” the Doctor notes, curling a hand beneath the surface to scoop up a palmful and thumb at its consistency like a child.
“Thought you’d like that,” Yaz chuckles, loitering before the tub like a loose part until the Doctor worries her lip in advance of a request. “D’you need any help with anything? I’m happy to lend a hand,” she asks, saving her the worry of overthinking.
“Do you think you could — ah —” the Doctor’s nose scrunches and she ducks her head, chin gracing the water. “My hair’s a bit — it’s quite knotty. Do you think you could help me wash it?”
Zeroing in on the bottles of shampoo and conditioner standing on the side of the bath, Yaz nods, baring an encouraging smile which floods the Doctor’s cheeks with colour.
With a full stomach and plenty of water and tea, her face has regained some of its usual colour already. And, considering the Doctor’s avid appetite, she doesn’t think it’ll be too long until she’s back to her usual self.
Her physical self, that is.
Her mental state, however, Yaz will have to keep monitoring.
For now, though, with a handful of shampoo, Yaz massages from the crown of her head to her temples, to the spot at the base of her neck that never fails to make her melt and unfurl with a sigh.
“Yaz?” the Doctor breathes while Yaz works to gently pry apart a relentless knot at the end of her hair, matted with neglect.
Braced for a pained complaint, Yaz wilts with a self-directed sigh of frustration, “Sorry, I’m trying to be as careful as I can. Do you want me to stop?”
“No, I wasn’t going to — you’re fine. Perfect. You’re perfect, please keep going,” the Doctor insists with pink cheeks. Her knees are tucked up to her chest and she leans her head forward to rest her chin atop them, giving Yaz more room. “I were going to ask— how long’s it been for you? Since I — y’know.”
“Oh.” Yaz finds the end of the knot and unwinds the locks with ease, moving onto the next one if it means her hands are moving too much to notice them shaking. She takes a breath, steeling herself. “One year, five months, and four days.”
“You kept count?”
Yaz swallows around the sudden lump in her throat when the Doctor’s voice comes out in a whisper. “I knew you’d come back, somehow.”
The blonde grows quiet again while Yaz tips her head back to rinse the musky shampoo from her locks.
Reaching past her for the conditioner, Yaz catches onto the possible reason. “You said once that time moves differently everywhere we go,” she starts, lathering her palms up before she gets to work gliding the mixture through her hair. “How long was it for you?”
“Long enough,” is the only reply she gets, but her tone answers most of Yaz’s follow-up questions. Dropping her forehead to the arms folded over her knees, the Doctor heaves a shaky inhale. Her spine protrudes unnaturally and Yaz swallows, overcome by a need to curl her arms around her and hold on until she’s sure she won’t simply break under the weight of her being. “I can’t go back there, Yaz. I think it would —”
She doesn’t have to finish for Yaz to understand her plight. Defiant against the ebb and flow of moisture to her eyes like a tide, she turns to determinism for strength. “You’re not going back. I won’t let it happen. We’re not losing you again.”
The Doctor’s hair is curling at the ends and drying into a healthy texture by the time Yaz opens the bathroom door after letting her dress herself.
Ryan’s dark green hoodie sits around her thighs and a pair of red tartan pyjama bottoms hang loosely over her hips and legs and she looks tiny; like a child in adults’ clothes.
She doesn’t question the way she strides forward and collects her in a hug. It’s their first, if she doesn’t count the way the Doctor had fallen into her chest hours earlier, and it’s worth the wait.
After her initial grunt of surprise, the Doctor sags against her like she’s the cure to her ailment or a buoy after days of solo swimming. Her head comes home to Yaz’s shoulder and Yaz buries her nose against the top of her head, breathing in fresh musk and a hint of spice.
She’ll have to compliment Graham for his choice of scent when she can drag herself away for long enough.
“What’s this for?” the Doctor mumbles against her shoulder, fingers cloying into the material of Yaz’s blouse. She shows no signs of moving away, though, only a renewed effort to make up for all the times they’ve missed out on a hug in the past.
“Thought you might’ve needed it,” Yaz poses, arms tight around her waist. She watches the last dregs of dirtied water swirl down the plughole behind her and bids farewell to her latest failure, vowing not to allow for a repeat.
The Doctor’s hearts skip, then settle into pace with Yaz’s own; thrumming in a steady pace against her chest. “You’re right,” she sighs, shoulders loosening when Ryan and Graham’s laughter drifts through the floorboards and tiles from the living room below. “But I think you needed one too, Yaz.”
Squeezing closer in one final push-and-pull of arms and hearts in tandem, Yaz accepts her assumption in earnest.
The Doctor is quiet for the remainder of the evening and into the night.
Quiet, but not distant.
She’s still with them when Ryan pipes up about the legitimacy of Back to the Future as it plays before them, and she’s still sociable when Yaz suggests they watch the Goonies , knowing full well it’s one of the Doctor’s favourite films.
When the Doctor does grow muted and reticent, Yaz is soothed by the warm hand which finds hers and the entwining fingers to follow beneath the covert blanket drawn over their laps.
Little by little, the alien relaxes tense shoulders and stops looking over them as though any minute she may be found and forced to return. And little by little, Yaz is reassured by her subtle recoveries.
By the time night falls and Graham and Ryan have bid them sweet dreams, the Doctor is already half-asleep against her shoulder.
Warmed by tea and blankets and doting company, the Doctor’s lids are heavy and words slurred when she mumbles a quiet “Thanks, Yaz. Thank you for saving me.”
Arm numb from the Doctor’s relaxed form, Yaz brushes her lips against her temple and exhales a sigh. “Think you might’ve saved me, too.”